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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153946">Do I Dream Again?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity'>stateofintegrity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:02:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the episode "Dreams" as Klinger struggles with his nightmare.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do I Dream Again?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamp_thing/gifts">swamp_thing</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He paced the dark paths of the camp as if there were no such things as snipers or a war being fought two miles away. Or was it three? It  </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>a war, supposedly. So what sense did it make to dwell on those guns and grenades? Sleep stalked behind him, a cool, dark shadow he sought to outmaneuver in army boots. He felt itchy when he looked at them. Maybe it was time to go back to heels? Just for awhile. He needed the comfort feminine garb conferred on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, maybe not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dream came back to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Toledo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dusty window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body on the hospital cot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pearls bright in his ears, set off by his dark hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew what was under that sheet and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> fatigues. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cinderella you ain’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought grimly. And when the clock struck midnight on this war-that-wasn’t what </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> he going to turn into? What could he return to? Toledo had been empty in his dream. He didn’t need Sidney’s psychological acumen or Winchester’s fancy words to riddle</span>
  <em>
    <span> that one</span>
  </em>
  <span> out. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maxwell Klinger</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his subconscious had just announced, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can’t go home again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least, not as you are</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot tears rose behind his eyes. He might not die in Korea (he tried not to tempt fate by thinking this </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> often) but to go back and renounce the self he’d found here… that was a kind of death, too, wasn’t it? Never being able to live the life that best suited him? Burying half of him in a hope chest (that half would </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> really good for the funeral, admittedly) wasn’t that condemning himself to never being fully alive again? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Kellye had woken him before the rest of the dream played out. Klinger had heard that you couldn’t die in your own dreams, but he didn’t want to put the theory to the test. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were clustered together as herd animals will do after one of their member has been brought down, hunkered down over the worn boards of a mess tent table, coffee mugs warming their hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who died</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Klinger thought stupidly. He even darted a look around the table and checked everyone off: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silver hair, cigar - the Colonel, check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk and BJ looking as if they actually were joined at the hip, check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Padre, looking at but not seeing a gardening catalogue, check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margaret looking after the Colonel without trying to be too obvious about it, check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles in a silly hat, check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone was still there, still breathing in and out. It was just that their usual spirit was missing. They were exhausted, enervated, eyes haunted. OR had been very ugly of late. There was little chance to sleep. Klinger supposed he should just be grateful just to serve with such fine folks, not to mention being allowed to sit with them as they faced down the night. As each figure stood to shuffle away, he smiled goodnight even though it was so very hard to smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon Klinger sat alone in the shadows. The window returned, his hand brushing the grime away… his body under the knife. But what cuts were kindest ones? Those that would make his form fit his dresses? He liked who he was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was. But who could possibly want </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Better to conform and be one thing and desirable, right? If he stayed this way, he was going to be alone - rejected by every Laverne, every Gus, there was. Thinking it made his chest hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But where could he fit? The dream said: not in Toledo. He wasn’t quite a guy anymore - but he was, for all his softness, something less than a gal, too. What did that mean? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the dream had played through, would Potter - Potter who called him son </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>complimented his dresses - have put that surgical scalpel right through his heart? Opened the vein at his throat or those in his wrists? Was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>the end of this road? He didn’t belong, so he had to disappear? If that was the case, was it best to try to go now? To walk into the jungle or the minefield? To not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go home? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something heavy dropped over his shoulders, a blanket, and by the weight of it, not army make. Klinger surfaced as Charles’ fuzzy hat was dropped on his head, slipping down almost to his nose. “You need a new fur,” said the Major. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you went to bed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried. However, if I must worry about whatever it is that is preventing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>from crawling into </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> bed, I will not be able to sleep. Out with it, Max.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maxwell knew they were friends - Charles was, perhaps, the best friend he’d ever had, despite the great and many differences between them. But that the sympathy between them was deep enough for this… it wasn’t quite Charles striding over a battlefield to lift up and heal his battered body, but it was close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t…” he wasn’t sure if he had words, or, finding them, if Charles ought to suffer the things that tormented his nocturnal mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles just stood and held out his hand. “The circles under your eyes are the color of wood violets, Max. In an eye </span>
  <em>
    <span>shadow</span>
  </em>
  <span> such a shade would be pretty. You need to sleep. Come on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger followed, figuring: </span>
  <em>
    <span>doctor’s orders, right? </span>
  </em>
  <span>At least he could try to get warm again. He’d lost his gloves somewhere in the middle of the session and if the other corpsman (he couldn’t even bring the guy’s face to mind) hadn’t kept him moving in the right direction, he might have walked the same body back and forth in a circle until the kid died. It was always a fear shadowing him during this kind of work… that he would be too slow and the doctors would shake their heads at him, say </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>loss was Maxwell Klinger’s fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How do you live with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>? he almost asked the man at his side. Every year as a practicing surgeon meant a rising death toll… in war, it meant losing someone almost every day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How do you keep going? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But he knew some of the answers; he was acquainted with the way Charles sought to shield himself. A few times he’d even seen beneath all that armor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must have been asleep on his feet because they were in his tent and Charles was helping him to dress, layering clean, soft things for warmth. When Klinger saw those strong fingers handling a softly fuzzy sweater - a feminine piece, clearly - in an effort to pull it over his soft hair - gone staticky in the dry cold - he slipped out of the surgeon’s hands and began to cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles didn’t chide him or make demands. Instead, he drew him up and bundled him into the warm, safe shelter/nest Klinger had created on the floor. He played with the stove a minute, coaxing more warmth from it. When he returned, Klinger told him he could have burned the sweater, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? What sin did it commit, aside from being imitation cashmere rather than the real thing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger swiped futilely at his eyes. “It’s not enough,” he sobbed, not making sense, “and it’s too much at the same time, just like me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles surprised him by rubbing his back. “You are not making sense, Max. You are quite exhausted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but not from no sleep. From life. What do I do about that, doctor?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger had never called him that. He was a good one. He pulled the pretty thing into his arms, arranged him so that Max could rest his dark head on his knees - and then he returned to stroking his back. Max sobbed. Charles knew this species of crying from taking care of Honoria. It was like a sudden storm: fierce and hard to weather. He knew, also, that Max completely lacked the strength to sustain it. He just had to wait for the younger man to quiet and then slip into sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glittering eyes looked up at him. “Major, why’re you…” he gestured, didn’t have the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that you will stop hurting.” He used his handkerchief to mop at his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger shook, sobbed again. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen ‘til I die, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His muscles tightened in fear. “Maxwell, you cannot be thinking…” It was too horrible to voice and it sent him back to his first days at the 4077th, made him selfish. “Max…” his voice was rough, low. “Please. I can scarcely endure this wretched place as it is. Without you… would you leave me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span>!?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words made no sense, but the sharp cry at the end made him hold tighter to the other man’s knees. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you, Major.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the dead filled his dreams - accusing harbingers. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>paid </span>
  </em>
  <span>to keep them alive, entrusted with their care and charged with their salvation… and he failed. Often. How could he keep himself safe if he kept failing them? How many new arrivals to… well, wherever the dead </span>
  <em>
    <span>went</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly, showed up saying, “I was sent here by Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III?” Surely their numbers must eventually reach a point where they had a right to demand his death, too, right? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if Max was with him- if he vouched for him, thinking he was far better than he was, praising him as Charles had heard him do to patients, valuing him beyond what he deserved - then, the ghosts couldn’t touch him. That trademark Klinger smile would beam through them like sunlight, dissolve them like so much fog. And they’d sigh in happy defeat, warmed by that grin, and envy him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Max. Tell me. I cannot bear to see you hurting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t get enough caretaking in post op, sir?” His voice was still tear-choked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dared to stroke his soft, thick hair and his fingers begged him to let them get lost there. “No one in post op or OR belongs to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made him shiver - then sob. “I don’t belong to anybody. I don’t… I d-don’t belong anyplace. Not in the army…  Can’t even… I don’t even belong in my own s-stupid </span>
  <em>
    <span>skin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’d be better off without me, sir. Everybody would.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stuttered syllables squeezed his heart as they reminded him of his sister. “Oh, my poor, tired dear… that simply is not true. This entire camp requires your bright presence to keep us smiling and sane. You are the Colonel’s right hand, even unto sharing his best cigars and wearing Mud Hens hats together. And anyone, even you, who wished you out of your skin, has absolutely no eye for fashion.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger rubbed at his eyes. That soothing, teasing tone… Charles was being uncommonly gentle with him. The least he could do was stop getting his knees wet. “Thank you, Major.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not require thanks - only reasons. Please, Max?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger bet Charles used the word “please” about as often as </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> got to say “resplendent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes lowered because he couldn’t bear to see his best friend become ashamed of him, he talked about arriving in the eerie, empty Toledo of his dreams. (And wasn’t it empty now? His ma had gone to live with his aunt out West. His friends had flocked to Gus and Laverne. Laverne had used his benefits to get herself a house with another man in it). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steadying himself with a breath, he recounted using his sleeve to clear the window, said how he’d looked past his own reflection - dark hair, delicate pearls in his ears - to see Potter with his tired eyes and grim expression. Then the sheet. The knowledge it hid along with his bare and vulnerable body. He shook as he told it, and Charles held his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, ya see, right, Major? I don’t fit. If I burn my dresses here before I go back… I don’t think I’ll make it. But if I don’t burn ‘em - what the hell am I but some kind of freak? My family’s not gonna want me around. There’s nowhere back there like the 4077 that’s gonna let me work in pants some days and skirts on others. Who’d even rent to someone like that? And forget… y’know… </span>
  <em>
    <span>having</span>
  </em>
  <span> anybody. Maybe once I’m not asking for a section eight, Dr. Freedman can stash me somewhere.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles shuddered at the thought. He knew about institutions and their walls… and his experiences had been in expensive, private spaces. A state run asylum was probably little more than a step above a POW camp. “You are not going to a mental hospital, Max. You do not belong in one. Further, I forbid it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tears surged again, trickled down his face. “So, where do I go, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using his thumbs, Charles brushed backward over the trail of his tears. “My darling sometime-girl, what if I told you that I know of someone who adores you in all manner of attire, possesses wealth enough to protect you no matter how you wish to appear in public, and lives in a home with closets enough to permit exponential growth of the Klinger collection in all of its sequinned glory?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a stunned, pretty little face you are making. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do not believe me. Understandably. I have written to Honoria, Max. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>expects</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to bring you home. Please do not make me face her anger. She has not yet forgiven me for getting drafted and leaving her to face society on her own; for failing to secure you, she will probably plan my painful demise - and that will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>after </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaving me at the airport in disgust.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger awakened, then, to the fact that Charles was holding his hand. Still. “Major?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles sighed. “I have never been overly fond of my rank, pet, but perhaps you will believe me to be half as fond of you as I actually am if I inform you that you may call me that for the rest of my life - if you will first agree to </span>
  <em>
    <span>share</span>
  </em>
  <span> my life. Say yes, Maxwell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This feels like ‘m dreaming again,” the Corporal murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gave Charles an idea. “Close your eyes, Max.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did so because he was completely wrecked by exhaustion and because he adored that voice and would have happily listened to Charles read the dictionary if he wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I realize that dream scared you, my dear. But imagine it again with me. We can fix it - together, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Max wasn’t sure he would have understood even if he wasn’t so tired that his skin ached like he’d lost a fight, but Charles sounded eager and hopeful; Klinger wouldn’t dissuade him just on principle. It was always nice to hear the Major excited about something. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That empty street, darling, allow me to walk it with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half asleep as he was, it was easy for Klinger to imagine him there. “I don’t think ‘ss fancy enough for you, Major. No pheasants and caviars.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles chuckled. “For you I can endure hot dogs and chili. Shall we look through that window, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then will you lead me to your home? Some place you like?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a home anymore… Laverne put my stuff in storage, I think. Ma isn’t in the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This hurt Charles - and jealousy flashed through him at mention of Laverne - but he was determined to make things better if he could. “There must be some place, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The park on Summit street. By the river.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure you would look most lovely beside fast-moving water. Can you see it? You and I there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could. “I can’t wait to see you in real clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles kissed his dark hair. “You may choose them if it pleases you.” He felt Klinger smile against his knee. “You were not going to wait for my permission, I take it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To see you in blue? No way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles could feel that he was calmer now, hoped talk of clothes might help him dream of more pleasant things. “Go to sleep now, dearest. I will be here if your dreams trouble you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll miss you while I’m asleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dream about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt that smile again and blushed for what it promised, but couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to a few waking dreams himself. It would take time for Max to understand that Charles accepted him, all of him, all the way through, but the surgeon was a patient man and he’d never had someone of his own to care for. As he held the Corporal’s small, sleeping form, he silently promised to make his life a happy one, and to banish fear even from his dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>End! </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's an Easter Egg in this one. If you find it, I'll write you a fic of your own ;)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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